


Exquisite Torture

by kate_the_reader



Series: Godfrey [1]
Category: Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Backstory, M/M, schooldays, unrequited pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9802976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: "You know I was in love with you at the seminary? ... It was torture. Exquisite." -- Godfrey to James.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This arose out of a long discussion with mycitruspocket and hooptedoodle about what James Delaney's interaction with Godfrey in episode 3 told us about their shared past, so they are in a sense, co-creators, and along with MsBrightsideSH and chasingriver read it and offered notes.
> 
> There are some period-specific terms, which I have marked and explain in an end note. If you hover your mouse over each word marked with an asterisk, the definition will appear as well.

 

The bed is so hard, the room so loud, the floor under his feet so cold.

 

William hadn't understood why he had to leave home, leave Mama and his sisters, so soft and bright and warm, and come here, to Addiscombe. Where everything is hard and loud and cold.

“Your Papa desires that you should have a career in the Company, like his, Billy,” his mother had told him, his father being away at sea, as always.

William has been taken aboard an Indiaman*, a baffling confusion of ropes and sails and loud orders and close confines with strangers. He does not want to live aboard one.

He doesn't know his father well, but Papa has made sure to tell him stories of being sent to sea at 11. Of being seasick, and hungry, and terrified, and beaten for every mistake, or none at all. He supposes that school will be better than that, at least.

He has never had to live with so many people. All boys, all yelling, all pushing. The noise beats at him, almost as bad as aboard the ship. He tries to make himself small and inconspicuous as they are led to the great dormitory, shown their hard beds lined up close. His trunk is at the end of his bed. Inside are his clean shirts, his other breeches, and buried far down, the picture Fanny drew, of Mama and the girls seated in the parlour, their heads bowed over their work. Fanny put herself in the picture, but not William. It's them, quiet at home, in the soft, warm firelight. He will look at it when no one is looking at him.

“Hurry up! Line up! Shut up!” An older boy is shouting at them. William stares at him.

“Didn't you hear me? Form an orderly line!” the boy shouts, walking down the row of shuffling boys, pushing and pulling them into order. William hurries to take his place.

The boy is but a few years older than them, but he radiates power, his thighs straining his breeches, his dark eyes hard.

When they have formed a line, he walks up the row again, his eyes raking over them. At the door, he turns.

“My name is Corporal James Delaney. I am your lord and master here.”

One of the boys snorts and Delaney stalks towards him. “You don’t believe me, eh? You think I am not? You will soon see.” He places his hand on the centre of the boy’s chest and gives him a shove, not hard, but sharp.

The boy steps back, looks up and nods. “Yes … sir,” he says.

Delaney nods. “Better,” he says. “You will do as you are told. You will follow orders. You will dress yourselves properly. You will not fight. You will not shout. You will not cry for your mamas. Or your nurses. You will act like the men you are.”

William doesn't feel like a man. He has already cried for his mama, and for Fanny and Eliza and Kitty. But James Delaney doesn't look like one to cross, even if he is just a few years older, no man himself.

Delaney turns, clearly they must follow him. The line of boys winds down the stairs to a vast and echoing dining hall. Other, older, boys are seated at the long tables, but the ends of the benches are empty.

“Sit. Silence at dinner,” says Delaney.

William sits down quickly on the very end of the bench at the nearest table.

“Are you sure you want to sit there?” says Delaney, quietly, passing to the head of the table. William doesn't understand. He nods.

He soon does understand. Servants carry steaming tureens to the head of each table and the older boys serve themselves, pushing the tureens down the long tables. By the time it gets to William, there is but a puddle of soup left.

A boy further up the table smirks as he spoons it into his bowl. “Didn’t they tell you anything?” he whispers.

“Silence!” shouts Delaney from the head of the table. His voice is deep.

There are loaves on the table too, and William secures a chunk to mop up his meagre soup. Dinner is over all too quickly and William’s stomach twists with hunger as they file from the room.

Delaney leads them out of the house to a huge outhouse, a line of jakes* along one wall. The stench assaults them. “The heads*,” he says. “You will piss. You will wash. You will shit in the morning.”

William wonders how he will ever manage that here, among so many people.

“You think you cannot? You will soon find that you can. You will do many things you thought you could not.” Delaney’s voice isn't quite so hard now. William looks around. Some of the boys are smirking, but others look as uncertain as he feels.

There is a bench lined with washbasins down the other wall. The water in the jugs is cold and there is no soap.

The boys line up to piss, wash their hands and faces, brushing the water off with their fingers. Outside, the night air stings. William wonders why Delaney brought them here without their towels and soap. Another mystery among so many in this confusing place.

Back upstairs, William slips into his nightshirt quickly, trying not to be seen. He is sure he is slighter than many of the others, but he doesn't look around to see. The floor is cold under his bare feet.

Delaney stands at the door, watching them. “You will not speak once the candles are doused. Kneel down, say your prayers.”

There is a great shuffling as 20 boys drop to their knees. Delaney does not utter a prayer, so William bows his head, silently asks God to look after Mama and the girls. “And me,” he whispers.

“That’s enough,” says Delaney. William scrambles to his feet.

“Into bed. No talking.” Delaney walks down the centre of the room. At the end, he douses the candles, turns and walks back in the darkness. He shuts the door behind him, leaving utter blackness.

The bed is hard and the blanket is thin, and someone is sobbing quietly, but William is exhausted and falls asleep listening to the sighs and snores of the many boys.

***

The door flies open. “Up!” shouts Delaney. William opens his eyes. The room is still dim. “Get dressed. Stand at the end of your beds.”

The floor is even colder than before and it’s not easy to dress in the gloom. It’s hard to tie his neckcloth on his own, even though he practised at home. He stands at the end of his bed, glancing left and right to see if the other boys have managed. Delaney stalks down the room, tweaking clothes and muttering to himself. When he gets to William, he snorts. “Tie it again.”

William’s hands shake as he undoes the neckcloth and tries again. “Better.” Delaney continues down the row, leaving William blushing furiously and the boy to his left giggling. “Silence!” Delaney growls, turning back towards them. The other boy stares at the floor.

They are led down to the dining hall. William manages to secure a place higher up the table, and therefore a full portion of porridge*. That is the way here, someone will always suffer, and it seems there will be a struggle not to be that unfortunate boy. He looks around when he has finished, trying to get a sense of the boys he’ll be living with for the next four years. Some seem hard and at ease, the smirkers, the ones with older brothers; others look as scared as William feels. He wonders who was crying, last night.

After breakfast, they’re told to go upstairs to fetch soap and towels and “Go and take a shit”. No one has ever spoken to William like that. He tries, but he can't. The acrid stench is even worse now that the sun is up.

He wonders what Mama and the girls are doing, and pictures them getting up, quietly moving around getting dressed, calmly drinking tea at breakfast.

They’re taken to their schoolroom. The master is a stern older man, but the lessons do not seem very difficult. William’s penmanship is held up as an example to the others, which earns him a mixture of admiring looks and scowls.

In the afternoon, they are led outside, and in a shed behind the building, shown where they will learn ship craft and swordsmanship. They watch as older boys climb the webs of ropes slung from the high roof. William’s stomach lurches.

Delaney is among the boys racing up the ropes, his breeches tight on his thighs and his backside.

When it is their turn to try, William freezes after taking the first few steps. He feels a hand closing around his ankle. “The trick is not to look down.” He looks down, to see who it is. Delaney. “No!” he says, “don't look down.” But he is smiling. “One step at the time. Watch your hands.” Delaney lifts his foot to the next rung. The ropes shake and bend as Delaney climbs behind him and he has no choice but to keep going upwards. At the top, he stands still, knees shaking, breath heaving.

“See?” says Delaney. William risks a glance, horrified and triumphant at the height. “Now back down. Don’t look!”

“Thank you,” William whispers, but Delaney is gone, back down the ladder, leaving him to follow.

***

A week passes in a blur of new experiences. He is better at lessons than most of the others; Latin, Greek, mathematics he has studied at home. The afternoons at the ropes are a little less terrifying. He notices Delaney watching him in the shed, and at meals he sometimes looks up and thinks he sees his dark eyes on him.

On Sunday after church they are instructed to write to their families. He doesn't tell them about the hard beds, the meagre food or the stinking jakes.

“I am capable at lessons,” he writes. “I have learned to climb the ratlines*. It is cold here. I trust you are all well.” He asks after Kitty's puppy. “Do not worry about me,” he writes, sniffing a little. “Your loving son, Wm. Godfrey,” he signs it. He writes the direction on the back of the paper, but they have no sealing wax.

One of the boys is told to collect all the letters and hand them to Delaney, who sits at the master's desk in the schoolroom. He glances through the stack, a faint smile on his face. “You'll learn not to bother complaining,” he says.

William is glad he did not, much.

As they file out of the schoolroom, Delaney stops him with a hand on his shoulder. When they are alone, he says: “You're Godfrey?”

“Yes, sir, Michael William Godfrey, sir. William, sir.”

Delaney looks faintly amused. “I need a servant. I choose you.”

William does not know what to think. He wants to ask why, but he stops himself. “Yes, sir,” he says.

“You will fetch for me, black my boots, do other things I may require. Come to my room after dinner.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” William hesitates.

“Well, go on,” says Delaney, not unkindly.

Delaney’s room is small — a bed, a little table, a chair. He turns in his seat when William knocks. “Come here,” he says, “I don't bite.” He smiles. One of his teeth is crooked, but they are white. “Here, my boots need cleaning. And clean your own, for God's sake.”

“Yes, sir. Where, sir?”

“The boot room, of course. End of the back passage.” He hands them over and waves William away.

The boot room is busy with boys blacking. “Delaney chose a fag*, I see,” says an older boy. “Pick of the litter, eh?”

William's face burns as he gets to work. Delaney's boots are still warm from his feet. When he returns them, Delaney barely looks up from his writing. William leaves his room silently.

***

In the training hall one day, the older boys are practising their swordsmanship and the younger ones are allowed to watch. Delaney fights with controlled ferocity, scoring hit after hit, shouting in triumph after each bout. His final opponent stumbles and falls but Delaney doesn't step back, placing the point of his blade on the boy’s breast and giving a sharp jab. “That’s enough!” cries the fencing master, and Delaney stalks off. The beaten opponent scrambles up. “Fuck you, Delaney,” he mutters.

William wonders what there is between them. Another mystery.

***

His work for Delaney isn't onerous. He is required to fetch his clean shirts, brush his coat, black his boots, bring him his letters.

Some of his fellows have also been chosen as fags, but Delaney is the chief among the senior boys, the corporal in their quasi-military hierarchy, and William is envied to have been noticed by him. He never thought he would be envied by his peers, for anything other than penmanship and mathematics.

He goes to Delaney's room after dinner to be told his tasks. One candle lights the small room warmly, and Delaney often sits writing at his table, his breeches unbuckled at the knees, his neckcloth undone.

“Do you get enough to eat?” he asks suddenly one evening.

William hasn’t been pushed to the end of the table again, but there is never really enough food, and what there is is of poor quality. “Yes sir,” he nevertheless says.

“Nonsense!” says Delaney. “I was always hungry when I was your age.” He holds out a small cake. “I got a package from my … from home.”

“Thank you, sir. I didn't know we were allowed things from home.” The cake crumbles as he bites into it, spilling crumbs down his coat.

Delaney snorts, but his eyes seem amused. “You aren't, but I am,” he says.

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir,” says William.

“Yes, well, bugger off now,” says Delaney, turning back to his table.

William is learning his ways. He is not mean, but he doesn’t suffer fools. Some of the other new boys have felt the cutting edge of his tongue, and he seems to tire of speech and company quite quickly, waving William away, turning from conversations with his fellows. William watches him carefully.

***

Last year, the coal merchant had a boy working for him. William remembers him. Tall, broad, filthy, ragged. He never said a word to William, who only glimpsed him a few times, when he was in the kitchen begging for treats when the coal was brought in. The boy’s blue eyes shone especially bright in his black-smudged face. But William's thoughts of him have been replaced by thoughts of Delaney.

***

William is, as he knew from the start, smaller than many of the boys. He has learnt to climb the ratlines, but he doesn't like larking about* up there like some of the boys do. One day, as he climbs slowly down, carefully not looking, Johnson, one of the confident boys, with two older brothers here, is descending behind him.

“Oh do hurry up, Godfrey!” he says. “You climb like a woman.”

He puts his foot on the rung William’s hand is still on, crushing his fingers. William snatches his hand away and loses his footing in his haste. Fortunately, the fall isn't far, but he lands hard on his back. Tears start to his eyes and he has to blink furiously to prevent them falling.

Delaney is there in a moment. “Johnson, bend over!” he cries, wrapping a short length of rope round his hand and swinging it through the air. It makes a whistling sound. Every boy in the shed is looking at where William sits on the floor, and Johnson stands above him, defiant. Delaney’s eyes are dark, darker than William has ever seen them. “I said, bend over,” he growls, flicking the rope across the back of Johnson’s legs. Johnson gasps, but he bends over, grabbing his ankles.

“Six,” says Delaney. “What you did was criminally stupid.” He brings the rope down on Johnson’s arse. “Causing another boy to fall.” Another blow. “You are lucky it wasn't higher.” Another blow, on and on till he has delivered six and Johnson is sobbing. “Fuck off now,” he says, turning away. No one steps forward to help Johnson. Delaney glances down at where William is still sitting on the floor, having watched the beating in horror. “Are you alright?” he says.

“Yes sir, I think so, sir,” says William, scrambling to his feet. “It wasn't all that far, sir.”

“It’s the principle,” growls Delaney, looking him up and down before turning away.

Johnson glares at William in the dining hall later, but he doesn't say anything as he sits down gingerly, wincing.

In his room after dinner, Delaney looks hard at William, but he doesn't mention the events of the afternoon as he hands over his boots for blacking.

When William returns them, he says: “You can't let anyone bully you, you know.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” says William, catching a hint of a smile as he turns away to the door.

Later, in bed, that smile plays behind his eyes as he tries to fall asleep. His shoulder is a little tender, but it may be worth it, to have achieved that regard again. He hoards every smile.

***

“Go on, get out!” Delaney is often impatient, but this is different. William brought him a letter this morning. He wonders if that has anything to do with his foul temper.

William gets letters from Mama and the girls, full of the small news of home: the puppy bit the housemaid, Mr Jenkins preached _such_ a scandalous sermon. Does Delaney get letters like that? It seems doubtful. He does get letters though. And cake.

His sharp dismissal stings and William closes the door quietly.

“Your master kicked you?” says Johnson, nastily, in the dormitory, in those few minutes when talking is not forbidden. William doesn't react, vows not to let his feelings show on his face next time.

He is slowly learning to school his expressions. At home, simple pleasure was easily to be had. Not here. At home, sadness was quickly soothed with loving words. Not here.

***

The noise is immense, the ring of boys tight packed. In a lull in the shouting, the sickening sound of fists hitting flesh can be discerned. William does not know who is fighting, until he hears: “Kill him, Delaney!” He pushes to the inside of the circle in horrified fascination. Delaney and Frobisher, the boy who was humiliated in the sword bout, are stripped to the waist, punching each other with ferocity. Blood runs into Delaney’s eye from a cut in his eyebrow, Frobisher has a black eye blooming and still they beat at each other, sloppy, slipping and flailing in the mud. Delaney lands a solid blow and Frobisher falls. Delaney turns away, but his opponent reaches up, grabbing at his hand and twisting his little finger backwards. Delaney gasps in shocked pain and a scandalised murmur sweeps around the ring. Cries of “Dirty” rise up, and the boys begin to disperse, disgusted.

Delaney cradles his injured hand, blinking blood and tears from his eyes, his face twisted in pain. He stalks off, round the gymnasium and into the great house. William follows at a distance, his stomach churning, the sound of the blows echoing in his imagination.

He knows he has to help, but how? He darts into the outhouse, snatches up a jug and basin and boldly goes to the kitchen to beg for hot water. The boys are not allowed into the kitchen, but the cook takes pity on him. Perhaps news of the fight has reached them, although no adults were present when the boys were brawling in the dirt.

He carefully carries the heavy jug up the stairs. At Delaney’s door, he taps with his foot.

“What?” Delaney’s voice is thick.

“It’s me, sir. May I come in?” William whispers. He sets the jug down so he can open the door. Delaney is sitting at his table, a cloth in his left hand pressed to his eye, his injured right hand held against his breast.

“I brought water,” says William.

Delaney looks baffled. “Water?”

“To clean your face?” He picks up the jug, carries it and the basin to the table, pours water into the basin. He reaches tentatively for the cloth. Delaney lets him take it and he dips it into the water, wipes at the blood and tears on his cheek as Delaney tips his head back. The cut is small and already scabbing over, so he leaves it and cleans the rest of his face. Leaning over, he jostles the injured hand, and Delaney hisses sharply.

“May I see?” says William, waiting to be allowed. Delaney holds out his hand. The little finger is at an odd angle and badly swollen. “Shouldn't you see a surgeon?” he says.

Delaney snorts. “Fighting is illegal. If I ask to see a surgeon, they will send me away. If I keep silent, they will pretend it never happened. Bind it up for me?” His voice cracks and slips a little and William is reminded that he is also still a boy.

William is entirely inadequate as a doctor, even as a nurse, but he nods. “What shall I use, sir?”

Delaney nods towards his chest. “There’s an old shirt,” he says.

William opens the chest. At the bottom is a shirt that is clearly too small, and worn thin. “This one?” he says, lifting it out. Underneath it is a bundle of letters tied with a red ribbon.

Delaney sighs. “Yes. I only kept it from sentiment.” He reaches for it, holds it against his face briefly. “Tear it up,” he says, handing it back, his voice hard.

William carefully tears a strip from the bottom. He takes Delaney’s injured hand in his and tries to be as gentle as he can as he binds it up. He’s never done anything like this and he fumbles awkwardly. Delaney winces but doesn't say anything until he is done. “Thank you … William,” he says, the first time he has ever used William’s first name.

William kneels down so Delaney won't see the blush spreading across his face. “Let me take your boots off, sir.”

“I can manage on my own.”

“No sir. Let me help till you can, sir.”

“Alright. Thank you.” Delaney’s left hand rests briefly on William’s bowed head.

And so begin several weeks that William will never forget, he knows. Kneeling at Delaney’s feet, helping him put on his stockings, his boots. Binding his hand.

Despite his efforts, the finger heals crooked. “Never mind,” says Delaney, “I don't care.”

But when he can do for himself again, he shrugs off William’s hand. “Leave me!” he says sharply. “Always pawing at me. Get out!”

William should be used to his moods, but it always stings. He turns to leave immediately. He has learned not to let it show, however. Johnson will never know.

The next evening, Delaney seems contrite. “I'm a bear, Godders,” he says, looking up from where he’s lying on the bed, reaching for William’s hand. “Forgive me?”

William smiles, taken aback by the apology, and the pet name. “Of course … sir.”

The reconciliation is almost worth the rejection, for the hesitant look in Delaney’s eyes, the warmth of his hand, with its crooked finger, a talisman of this time they have shared.

***

William is good at mathematics, but as their lessons leave the world of plain numbers and sail into the ocean of navigation at sea, he is at a loss.

Because of the way the master previously held him up as an example, his fellows are not kind to him over his current struggles. He doesn't want to go to sea, but he fears he will not avoid it. It is why they are at the seminary after all, to be turned into the Company’s officers, and officers must sail. How else is trade to be conducted?

He tries very hard, but he cannot understand how to calculate the angle at which a ship sails before the wind. Their master is an old man, who has never himself been to sea.

William wastes many sheets of paper and much ink as he tries to puzzle it out for himself. Finally, with no one else to turn to, as he brushes Delaney’s coat in the warm little room on an evening, he ventures: “Do you understand the angle of the wind? I have tried and tried but I cannot make it out.”

Delaney laughs, but not unkindly, it seems. “I think so. I did not, at first.”

“Could you … would you help me, please sir?”

“Christ, I don't bite, you know, Godders,” says Delaney. “Come here. Sit down.”

He pushes a sheet of paper and a pen over, stands behind William, seated at the table, and leans over his shoulder. “Write the problem,” he says, so William does, his hand shaking a little.

Delaney takes the pen from his fingers and his voice vibrates through William as he explains the problem, making it real. William can finally imagine the ship leaning into the wind, the sails flapping and then filling, the ropes creaking. The heat of Delaney’s chest as he leans forward, his smell — of sweat and wet wool and the meat they ate at dinner — threaten to distract him, however.

At last, Delaney steps back. “Do you see now?”

He does. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Well, go away now or you’ll be late,” Delaney says gruffly, not looking straight at William. He hands him the paper, covered with both their writing.

Later, William folds it carefully and places it in his chest underneath Fanny’s picture of Mama and the girls.

It’s quiet in the dormitory at night, now. No one sobs for their mama anymore, although there is some rustling and heavy breathing William doesn't completely understand.

Until the mathematics problem night. When he closes his eyes, he thinks he can still feel Delaney’s chest pressed across his shoulder as he leant forward to take the pen from William’s hand. The heat he didn't really feel, through his coat, but sensed, or imagined, through the shirt, open at the neck, that Delaney had been wearing.

Delaney’s hand, calloused from years of ropes, the little finger curled against his palm, the nails dirty, plucking the pen from his fingers.

 _The nails dirty_. William pauses to examine that. Being clean was always so important at home. Not here. The stench of the jakes still makes his eyes water, but the smell of a whole roomful of indifferently washed boys is more comforting than revolting. And the sight of a dirty hand, a particular dirty hand … William’s brain reels off in a new direction every time he sees those nails, rimmed with black.

And now, in the unquiet darkness, with the memory of Delaney’s presence filling his head, William’s stomach clenches and his cock gets hard. He’s woken like that a few times, and wondered why, but now it’s so clear. He pushes his hand under the covers, up under his nightshirt, and brushes his fingers against his cock. His whole body shakes and he’s breathing hard, hearing his heart banging in his chest. _Did he gasp aloud?_ He brings his other hand to his mouth in a fist, bites on his knuckle and returns his fingers to his cock. Trailing along its length only makes it harder, more sensitive. He bites harder at his knuckle, breath gusting from his nose. Surely he can be heard? He knows he can, he has heard other boys make the same panting noises. He closes his hand on himself, feels the hot hardness. A sticky drop forms at the tip of his cock. He brushes his thumb through it. Squeezes his hand tighter. His stomach jumps, he feels that his teeth will break the skin on his hand, but he daren’t stop biting down for fear of crying out.

And all the while, the memory of Delaney’s heat, his closeness, the rumble of his voice against William’s spine, the gentleness of his rough fingers as he took the pen, the patience of his teaching, combine in a swirl of feeling.

He has glimpsed a picture of a woman — breasts spilling from her dress and handled by a man, mouth open in a scream — much creased from being folded in a book, when it was passed around a circle of boys giggling behind the gymnasium. He gathered he was supposed to be shocked with delight. He was not. Instead, he thought of Delaney climbing the ratlines, his thighs flexing in his breeches.

He drags his hand along the length of his cock. His palm has also been roughened by climbing the ropes, but is not as rough as Delaney’s. And his fingers are all straight. The coarse drag is delicious and terrible. He swipes his thumb over the tip again, smears the stickiness into his palm to ease the way, but wants more. Quietly, he lifts his hand from under the blanket, takes his fist out of his mouth and cautiously licks his palm. He savours the bitter saltiness on his tongue and wets his hand, slipping it back, grasping himself again, sliding the wet circle of his fingers up and back down. Slowly, so slowly. And then faster. He gasps tiny breaths around his bitten knuckle until his mouth opens in a silent cry and wetness erupts from his cock. A shudder wracks through him from his toes to his fingertips.

As he lies panting, trying to be quiet and certain he is failing, shame sweeps over him. His nightshirt is wet, and a cooling stickiness covers his stomach. He bunches the drier fabric and dabs furtively at it. He can feel his face burning. But he can’t dismiss the memory of Delaney’s weight on his shoulder. That memory is perhaps all he’ll ever get from him, he thinks.

The shame flares again when he strips off his nightshirt in the early morning gloom and finds it crusted with the dried fluid. He pushes a handkerchief under his pillow then.

***

Delaney bangs into his room while William is sweeping with a small brush. He flops onto the bed without a word and turns towards the wall, his shoulders hunched. His muddy boots smear the blanket.

William is torn with indecision. He wants to ask what is wrong. He wants to take his boots off, something he has not been allowed for weeks since the hand healed. He stands up. “Sir?”

Delaney sighs. “I'm sick of it, Godders.”

William waits for him to continue.

“I'm so sick of being their whipping boy.”

William reaches out, touches his shoulder. Delaney flinches, but he doesn't shrug him off.

“What happened, sir?”

Delaney lays his left hand over William’s and turns onto his back, wincing. There are tears in his eyes.

“They say …” His voice cracks. “They say I am impertinent. They say I must know my place. All I want is to go home. She needs me. I just want …” He cuts himself off short, as if fearing he’s said too much. “So he flogged me for impertinence.”

Flogging is common. Someone is always being flogged, by masters, and by senior boys. Delaney himself deals out blows with a rope end. William has not been flogged.

Delaney’s hand still rests over William’s, on his shoulder. William turns his hand over and grips it. Delaney frowns, fleetingly, and rubs his bent hand over his eyes. “Well, fuck them,” he says. He leaves his hand in William’s a little while longer.

“Shall I take your boots off?” says William, softly. Delaney drops his hand.

“Thank you,” he says. William kneels by the bed and unties the laces. He does not let his hands linger, sets the boots aside. Delaney pulls his stockinged feet up on the bed and reaches out his hand again. “William?” he says. He doesn't call him William often, preferring his own pet name. William gives him his hand, his breath catching as Delaney’s rough fingers close on his. Delaney nods at the bed, motioning for him to sit. “Am I mean to you?” he says.

William can hardly breathe. He looks down at his lap, not at where their hands lie on the bed. “No, sir,” he says. His voice comes out very soft. Behind him, Delaney snorts. “Not often, sir. Sometimes you are … impatient.”

“Sometimes I am angry. Often. I hate it here.”

William turns to look at him. “But you’re their favourite. They put you in charge.”

Delaney laughs, mirthlessly. “So they could control me better. To buy my compliance. I hate them!” He closes his eyes, so William can look at him: his straight nose, his long lashes, his soft mouth. Minutes pass in silence before Delaney half opens his eyes again. William doesn't drop his gaze, even though his heart is loud in his ears.

“What do they call you, at home?” says Delaney, suddenly.

“Billy,” he says.

“Billy,” echoes Delaney. “She calls me …” But his voice trails off and he closes his eyes again. His hand goes loose around William’s, so he stands up, picks up the boots and takes them to the boot room for blacking.

***

The ground has frozen to iron and there are icicles hanging from the eaves. There are icicles hanging from the windows in the dormitories too. Lessons are cancelled and the boys are told to carry their pallets* from the dormitory into the great hall, where the fireplace is large. The whole school will sleep in the hall until the freeze breaks. “We can’t have mamas complaining that their precious boys were left to freeze,” says Stuart Strange, one of the rare times the head of their “regiment” takes notice of them.

It takes two boys to carry each pallet and many hours before they are all lining the floor of the great hall, while that room’s usual furniture has been shifted to the passages. Servants, masters and boys trip over the things lining the hallways, but there is an air of holiday.

When the moving is done, the boys are sent outside to slide on the frozen stream.

William has never felt such cold, but running and sliding and shouting warm them all. There is more food than usual, and hot coffee when they come back in.

His fingers burn and ache as they warm up. “Tuck them into your armpits,” says Johnson, no longer so hostile. “That’s the way to warm them, my cousin says. He’s been round the Cape many times.”

The trip to the outhouse is worse than usual, but the cold has dulled the stench, at least. Hot water has been provided for once, cold water would just freeze in the jugs.

The hall is less cold than the upstairs rooms, but it is not warm when the boys are told to go to bed. William keeps his stockings on and creeps under the blankets on a pallet not very close to the fireplace. The favoured places have been claimed by quicker, older boys. Fagging* has been suspended for the day and he has not seen Delaney, other than looking at him at dinner, when Delaney was looking the other way. He lies stiffly under the blankets waiting to get warm, shivers shaking him, teeth aching from the effort of trying not to let them rattle. The hall is not dark, still lit by the great leaping fire the senior boys are stoking in the hearth. They speak in quiet tones as they sit round it. William is starting to drop off when Delaney steps between the pallets.

He pokes at William’s shoulder with the toe of his boot. “Budge over, Godders,” he says, low. “I didn’t bring mine down. No room, anyway.” He kneels down, turns to sit so he can tug off his boots. William is rigid with surprise.

“Here, sir?” he whispers.

“Course,” says Delaney, taking off his coat and wriggling out of his breeches. “Now budge up.” He lifts the blankets and waits for William to shift over. The pallet is narrow. William hasn’t taken a breath since Delaney sat down, almost on his foot. He does now, a great ragged lungful. He shifts over and Delaney lies down next to him.

“Damn, this is awkward,” he says. William is panting in quick gasps. He turns on his side in an attempt to take up less space. “That’s better,” says Delaney. William can’t respond, simply lies stiffly, trying not to let any part of him touch Delaney, however much he is screaming to do just that.

Delaney sighs and turns over behind William. He’s sure the sound of his heartbeat must be audible not only to Delaney but to the whole hall. He knows he won’t be able to sleep at all. There is space between them, but he can feel the warmth of another body. It is hard not to relax into it. Delaney shifts closer and his breath tickles the back of William’s neck.

The mere memory of Delaney’s weight on his shoulder as he explained the wind problem has been enough to fuel his thoughts for weeks. Night after night when William closes his eyes, Delaney is there: warm, rough-palmed, speaking in his deep voice while William drags his hand, licked, up his cock and tries not to cry out. His knuckle is bruised and aching from being held between his teeth so often.

Now his warmth is real, his breath is damp and soft and his chest is a mere inch from William’s back and William’s cock is hard and there’s nothing he can do, nothing. He lies still and listens to his own panting breath. He can’t hear anything else, until: “I can’t sleep with you shaking over there, William.”

“No, sir, sorry sir,” whispers William, trying to still his body.

“Come here,” says Delaney with a tsk of annoyance, and reaches out. His hand lands on William’s waist and tugs him backwards. That last inch. The noise that comes unexpected from William’s mouth is undignified.

“Lie still and sleep … Billy,” murmurs Delaney. If his hand drifts any lower, William cannot imagine what he would do, or say. He cannot allow that to happen, but it is impossible to stay rigid, surrounded as he is by Delaney’s warmth, his chest pressed against his back, and … William refuses to think about what is pressed against his arse. Delaney’s crooked finger is on his stomach, he feels it flex as he apparently falls asleep.

William cannot, dare not, will not sleep. He will lie awake, he thinks, lie awake enduring — and savouring — this torture.

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary of terms  
> Indiaman: a ship operated by the British East India Company.  
> jakes, the heads: toilets -- a jakes is an outhouse, non-flushing toilet; the heads are where sailors relieve themselves on a ship.  
> porridge: "oatmeal"  
> ratlines: the rope-ladders in the rigging by which sailors climb up to the masts on a ship.  
> fag: in British boarding school terms, a younger boy who acts as a servant to an older boy. It doesn't have a sexual meaning.  
> fagging: the system of younger boys serving older boys.  
> Larking about: frolicking; in naval terms, specifically, playing in the rigging of a ship.  
> pallets: hard mattresses.  
> Addiscombe was the British East India Company's school.


End file.
